


The Nightingale's Secret Songs

by GoldenPrincess



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Rating May Change, Who is Leliana even?, potential smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24302770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenPrincess/pseuds/GoldenPrincess
Summary: Do you want to know a secret?This tale of miracles and grand heroism where some paint me an avatar of Andraste herself—while others cast me a master of the Grand Game, pulling puppet strings among the highest powers in Thedas. You may know me as Sister Nightingale, Left Hand of the Divine, Spymaster to the Inquisition, and even Mistress to the Queen of Ferelden. To hear others tell it, I am at once made of light and shadows, lyrium and blood, that I am both disciple and heretic.I know what happened, and what is true...  But I don't know how it should end. Let me tell you my tale, and perhaps together, we will see...
Relationships: Female Cousland/Leliana (Dragon Age), Leliana/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Leliana/Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 13





	1. Let in the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers:
> 
> This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Dragon Age universe, which is trademarked by EA Bioware. The depicted characters are created and owned by EA Bioware, and I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Dragon Age. The story I tell here about Leliana and the Hero of Ferelden is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of the Dragon Age canon, even though the work is canon-compliant. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

_I remember..._

The first time I saw her. Trying to be inconspicuous despite legs that drew the eyes of everyone in the tavern and hair the colour of sunlight. A beacon of hope in the darkness. Could the Maker have been more blunt? Her name is Astrid because of course it is. Surely, this was the woman, the cause, that He intended for me to serve. 

I would come to learn later that the Grey Wardens are obligated to renounce their familial ties. But Astrid still carried herself like the high-born she obviously once was. She fought like one as well. All honour and finesse, but utterly dull instincts for self-preservation. So many advantages noticed yet not taken. There was much I could teach her.

What bite she lacked with her blades she more than made up for with her tongue. That oaf of Loghain's tried to cow her. What did he say? That no one had ever drawn his blood in a fight? She immediately retorted with— _Oh? You run that fast, do you?_ —And before he knows what's happening she's sliced his belt to reveal his smallclothes! Run fast he most certainly did, to preserve what was left of his dignity!

The last time I laughed with such mirth was when Marjolaine planted a rather... unique leather codpiece on the Knight-Commander in Ghislain.


	2. Shut Out the Night

_I remember..._

When I learned of who Astrid was before she joined the Grey Wardens. I had seen the look on her face when the elf, Berwick, revealed his employer was Arl Rendon Howe. And what's more, that Howe was in league with the traitor Loghain. It was a look that betrayed dark notions... Notions undoubtedly similar to those I entertain when Marjolaine enters my thoughts. 

Astrid was reluctant to share details with me, but I found a looser tongue in Alistair. Though news had already reached my ears that the Teyrn of Highever and his family had been massacred, I was surprised nonetheless to discover that the woman I now served was his daughter. 

I can see it now, the grief that is constantly behind her eyes. And yet there is a kind of regalness in her tragedy. She conducts herself effortlessly with the nobility, wielding a persuasive charm that took me years in the Game to master. Between Astrid's tongue and her beauty, few we meet have any hope of resisting us in our quests—though I have met teenage boys with greater restraint than that fool, Bann Teagan. Even the witch, Morrigan, and that stoic Qunari seem compelled by her.

What a bitter twist that her composure and grace, once intended for a high political station and perhaps even royalty, now instead carry her through what can only be a profound mourning, both for her family and her former identity. She is trying to remake herself, just as I am.


	3. There are Lions on Our Curtains

_I remember..._

Astrid confronted me about my vision. I knew it would come up sooner or later given how vague I was when we first met. She doubts me, I can tell. Of course I know what the Chantry says, but has the Maker truly left us if the beauty of His Creation remains? She asks how I can be so certain when there is still so much suffering and injustice all around us. As examples, she cites Loghain's treachery, the Arl's poisoning, and the plight of his poor son, Connor. I know she is also thinking of her parents.

Even so, I argue that suffering serves to remind us of what is precious and worth defending. Is that not why we fight against the Blight? Why we journey now to the Circle of Magi? The Maker allows us to make mistakes so we may learn from them. How else might we come to know His wisdom?

Astrid was forceful in her counter-arguments, but I sensed an insincerity in them as well, as if she desperately wanted me to convince her I was right. Though I remained outwardly unshaken, something she said in bitterness unsettles me—that we are each of us merely the minstrels of our own lives, imposing meaning on our experiences lest our fragile minds be driven insane by the world's cruel randomness. I told her I was once a minstrel, a half-truth by omission only. How quickly my old habits have returned. If I can deliberately weave my own tale in so many different colours, could she be right?

Later, during our evening watch, she apologized to me. She said that I should listen to what is in my heart and that she liked my way of seeing things better than the Chantry's—that if I could have such faith, then she would try to as well. I wonder that she would still take such comfort in my words, were she to discover the kind of person I really am.


	4. Their Paws Caught in a Trap

_I remember..._

The day Astrid was bested by a lock. Here was a woman who played at pranks as a girl, perhaps breaking into her parents' chambers to try on her mother's dresses or pilfering sweets from the castle kitchens. But girls with such privilege as Astrid are not faced with the opportunity, or inclination, to steal anything of great value. At least, this is what I imagine of her childhood. What else could explain our Lady Warden's rather colourful expressions of frustration when she discovered that the lock on the First Enchanter's personal chest was somewhat more complex than the armoury and larder doors she was no doubt accustomed to?

Our situation at the time was rather dire. And yet, amidst the screams of abominations and the shadows of demons, I could not help but smile at the furrow on her brows and the pout on her lips. At once, I could see the mischievous little girl that this mouthy, brash woman grew from. I watched her attempts with amusement for a time before pity, and urgency, got the better of me.

_Allow me. I could do that for you_ —I said and kneeled at her side. 

It took but a moment for me to address the lock, and I smiled again at the expression of sheer amazement she displayed on witnessing my skills. Her fair cheeks darkened as I held her hands to demonstrate the correct technique with the lockpick, perhaps from embarrassment. Or perhaps from something else... I have seen how her eyes have a tendency to linger on a pretty face.


	5. They Lick Their Wounds

_I remember..._

How it wasn't until hours later, patching our wounds after reassuring the Knight-Commander we had purged the Circle of every demon and abomination, that I thought to wonder _why_ Astrid broke into the First Enchanter's chest. I suppose I simply trusted that she had a good reason. So much so that I did not think to question it at the time. This troubles me.

When I asked her what she was looking for, she said something about a book of spells that Morrigan wanted. This troubles me even more. The witch is hiding something from us, I'm certain of it. She may be an apostate from the wilds, but deception is a universal language that I happen to be quite fluent in.

Astrid was stubborn when I confronted her. She became untalkative after I implied Morrigan couldn't be trusted, saying that having seen what the Circle is really like she thought Morrigan was in less danger of possession than the whole lot of them combined. I was shocked that she could so casually utter such heresy. And yet I also find myself doubting whether the Chantry's approach to mages is for the best after what we've witnessed. And for all of her cruelty and irreverence, Morrigan's command of magic is remarkably controlled for someone who grew up outside the Circle.

But even if Morrigan is not maleficar, that still does not make her worthy of Astrid's trust. Alistair tells me Morrigan and her mother saved their lives at the Battle of Ostagar. Perhaps Astrid feels she owes Morrigan for that? Well, if she insists on leaving her back unguarded, at least I am here to watch it for her.


	6. They Lick Their Doubt

_I remember..._

I spent some time speaking to Wynne after Astrid shut me down. She's a kind, lovely woman, and something of a prodigy if I'm correctly reading the humility when she speaks of her talents. When I spoke of my worries regarding Morrigan, she explained to me that the danger apostates pose is not lack of skill, but lack of emotional control. I had not realized how connected magic was to emotion, but the link certainly makes sense in hindsight.

Morrigan's weakness is her overconfidence, Wynne says, as if speaking from personal experience. After what happened at Kinloch Hold, she believes the Circle needs a more coordinated approach to maintaining the emotional well-being of its charges. And yet, for all her wisdom, the unwavering faith she has in the Circle is as obvious as it is nuanced. She reminds me of Dorothea.

Is it really so wrong to question our interpretation of the Maker's messages while trusting in His love for us? Is it wrong to believe that there is room for all of us, even someone like Morrigan, at His side? How can I claim to be faithful when I am so full of doubt? When despite my best efforts, I can't stop questioning... What is left for any of us, otherwise?

Astrid said something about Morrigan just needing a friend. I want to believe she has the right of it, that she embodies the spirit of the Maker in this. After all, who am I to question her when she so readily shows me the same compassion? Wynne tells me Astrid has a good heart, but then again she says the same about me. My distrust persists like a creeping weed that returns no matter how many times I attempt to uproot it.


	7. There are Angels on Our Curtains

_I remember..._

The night I found myself pleased that someone had fallen asleep listening to one of my tales. Astrid's nightmares, the visions of darkspawn that Grey Wardens suffer, had begun to worsen. My understanding is that they increase in frequency and intensity during a Blight, but I am sure that our harrowing experience at the Circle must have played some part as well. Or perhaps she was dreaming of her murdered family, or the horrors at Ostagar. It is all far too much trauma in such a short time for one person to bear. 

She whimpered and shuddered as I kept watch until finally, she awoke with a gasp. Now alert, she noticed my gaze and came to sit at my side by the fire. Her golden hair was dark where it stuck to her forehead. I had the urge to brush it aside but I stilled my hand. She made light of her dreams when I asked after them and begged instead for a tale, something fanciful to draw her thoughts away from darkness. Of course, I obliged. 

So caught up was I in my rendition of the Black Fox's escape from the vile magister Tamaxes, I had not realized that Astrid had fallen back to sleep upon her bedroll, which she had apparently dragged closer to myself and the fire. Not until a faint snore interrupted me that is. She looked so peaceful, her features soft in a manner she would not allow while awake, and my heart swelled with the knowledge that I had given this to her.

It would come to be that many more nights passed between us just like this, where my tales brought her relief from the terrors of her slumber. Somehow, the gratitude of a single weary woman is worth more to me than a ballroom full of adoring patrons.


	8. Let in the Night

_I remember..._

She had been looking at me strangely since the Circle. Suspicion? Or curiosity? I could not tell.

After the First Enchanter saved Connor from the desire demon, Bann Teagan allowed us to stay at the Castle overnight. He would not leave Astrid alone all evening, and she was too gracious to be rude in the face of his hospitality. I had heart neither to witness the two of them overlong nor to be an ear for Alistair's predictable grumbling about it. But I was restless, so rather than retire, I ventured to a quiet spot on the ramparts to watch the stars and play my lute for a space.

Under the darkness of a new moon, my fingers found an old tune that whispered of mysteries and forbidden desires—a tune I had not played since the night of another new moon. The night that Marjolaine made me hers.

When I finished, I turned to leave and she was there! In the shadow of the watchtower behind me. Arms crossed, still as a statue. She had followed me. How long had she been there?

_You play beautifully_ —she said, and I did not know if she meant the lute or something else. 

I shuddered at how she managed to get so close without making a sound. The Chantry has made me careless. 

_Sorry if I frightened you_ —She noticed my unease. Dangerous. 

_I'm not frightened!_ —Like a child. Foolish. 

_Oh, but of course not. All that worldly experience as a travelling minstrel, how could I forget?_ —I could not escape her any longer. 

The sloth demon had given me away. I remember nothing of my time in the Fade except for an odd, sinking feeling of complacency, like drowning in molasses. Was the demon really drawing on my time at the Chantry for that feeling? Astrid tells me I spoke of seeking forgiveness for past sins and refuge from shadows that hunt me. It wasn't difficult for her to put the pieces together. 

So I told her everything about Marjolaine. Well, almost everything. How she betrayed me, how Dorothea helped me escape, how I ran to Lothering. I told her I'm not that person anymore. Or at least, I'm trying not to be. 

She asked me why I lied. How could she not understand? It is in my nature to lie! Why in Andraste's name would she trust a bard, an Orlesian spy, reformed or otherwise? I'd have told me to leave, were I in her place. 

_Let's see, we have a Qunari informant, a Witch of the Wilds, a surprise bastard of the King, and... a bard. Sorry, it's just not that impressive. Now if you were secretly—oh I don't know—a serial arsonist magister from Tevinter, well then I'd really have to think about whether or not to keep you around._

I accused her of mocking me, of not taking our work seriously enough, of trusting too easily. I spilled all the frustrations and worries I'd been feeling at her feet like a Wicked Grace amateur dropping cheat cards from every sleeve, boot, and pocket. When I smacked her chest, she grasped my shoulders—firmly, but gently. Up close, she is so tall, her arms are so broad and so _muscled_ , she smells like worn leather and rain, and her breath caresses my brow in the dark like a phantom of a memory of a dream... 

I apologized for my outburst. I could not see her well, but somehow I _felt_ her half-smile. She used to fantasize about being a bard when she was a girl, she said, only she never had the voice for it. She lifted a hand to my cheek, glove hovering an inch from my skin for what seemed an eternity. Then, just like that, she stepped backwards, bid me goodnight, and left. 

There are so many emotions that should by warring for supremacy in my thoughts—anxiety, anger, shame, confusion—but all I can think about... all I can think about are her arms and how they felt on me. 


	9. Fancy Things Beautiful and Strong

_I remember..._

How the Antivan Crow, Zevran, joined our motley band. Hired by Loghain to assassinate any surviving Grey Wardens, he led a of crew of rogues to ambush us on the road to Denerim. I counted nearly two dozen men surrounding us, but this only made Astrid smile, a dangerous twinkle in her eyes. _Time for more practise!_ —she jested. It disturbs me that one of her few joys these days is the excitement of a challenging battle.

Built like an Avvar she-warrior from the mountains, she towers over most women—and also many men!—yet none of the rogues could touch her. A graceful shadow with the strength of a battering ram. I have seen her dismember and even decapitate darkspawn where they stand, cuts cleaner than an executioner's axe. She no longer holds back the way she did when I first met her. Not unless she's playing. Was I too quick to admonish her more merciful tendencies? She takes so much of what I say to heart, I must be more careful with my words around her. 

One of the rogues pushed a massive tree trunk into the path behind us to block our escape. Astrid shoved me aside with her body just in time to prevent me becoming a stain in the dirt. Together, we tumbled to the ground and for a brief moment she lay atop me. The air left my lungs, though not from the force of the blow.

Astonishingly, the Crow managed to charm his way into our company. Though given how cheeky Astrid was about my own history back at Redcliffe, perhaps it is not so astonishing. What had he called her? An _utterly gorgeous sex goddess_ or something similarly base. I believe my eyes would be half-way to Orlais if they could roll any further. It was a hair's breadth short of an outright proposition, and immediately, Astrid's wit left her like an arrow let fly only to be replaced by a shade on her cheeks that would put beetroots to shame. I don't believe anyone has ever spoken to her in such a manner. I shall remember that.

As Astrid took Alistair aside to address his concerns about our new ally—the tips of his ears had turned a similar colour to her cheeks—the elf attempted to flatter me as well. But I am too old a hand at this game to be undone by such boldness. He does have a handsome face, I will give him that, and having the skills of an Antivan Crow at our disposal is too great an opportunity to turn away. Cliff seems quite taken with him at any rate. Mabari are excellent judges of character, so they say, and perhaps his mistress is too after all.

We have made camp for the night and I can see Astrid conversing with the elf now. Though they are too far from me to overhear, it seems he has once again uttered something decidedly unsubtle to our Lady Warden. I can observe the colour in her cheeks from here.


End file.
